The Seventh Pullet
"It's not the daily grind that I complain of," saidBlenkinthrope resentfully; "it's the dull grey samenessof my life outside of office hours. Nothing of interestcomes my way, nothing remarkable or out of the common.Even the little things that I do try to find someinterest in don't seem to interest other people. Thingsin my garden, for instance.""The potato that weighed just over two pounds," saidhis friend Gorworth."Did I tell you about that?" said Blenkinthrope; "Iwas telling the others in the train this morning. Iforgot if I'd told you.""To be exact you told me that it weighed just undertwo pounds, but I took into account the fact thatabnormal vegetables and freshwater fish have an after-life, in which growth is not arrested.""You're just like the others," said Blenkinthropesadly, "you only make fun of it.""The fault is with the potato, not with us," saidGorworth; "we are not in the least interested in itbecause it is not in the least interesting. The men yougo up in the train with every day are just in the samecase as yourself; their lives are commonplace and notvery interesting to themselves, and they certainly arenot going to wax enthusiastic over the commonplace eventsin other men's lives. Tell them something startling,dramatic, piquant that has happened to yourself or tosomeone in your family, and you will capture theirinterest at once. They will talk about you with acertain personal pride to all their acquaintances. 'ManI know intimately, fellow called Blenkinthrope, livesdown my way, had two of his fingers clawed clean off by alobster he was carrying home to supper. Doctor saysentire hand may have to come off.' Now that isconversation of a very high order. But imagine walkinginto a tennis club with the remark: 'I know a man who hasgrown a potato weighing two and a quarter pounds.'""But hang it all, my dear fellow," saidBlenkinthrope impatiently, "haven't I just told you thatnothing of a remarkable nature ever happens to me?""Invent something," said Gorworth. Since winning aprize for excellence in Scriptural knowledge at apreparatory school he had felt licensed to be a littlemore unscrupulous than the circle he moved in. Muchmight surely be excused to one who in early life couldgive a list of seventeen trees mentioned in the OldTestament."What sort of thing?"asked Blenkinthrope, somewhatsnappishly."A snake got into your hen-run yesterday morning andkilled six out of seven pullets, first mesmerising themwith its eyes and then biting them as they stoodhelpless. The seventh pullet was one of that Frenchsort, with feathers all over its eyes, so it escaped themesmeric snare, and just flew at what it could see of thesnake and pecked it to pieces.""Thank you," said Blenkinthrope stiffly; "it's avery clever invention. If such a thing had reallyhappened in my poultry-run I admit I should have beenproud and interested to tell people about it. But I'drather stick to fact, even if it is plain fact." All thesame his mind dwelt wistfully on the story of the SeventhPullet. He could picture himself telling it in the trainamid the absorbed interest of his fellow-passengers.Unconsciously all sorts of little details andimprovements began to suggest themselves.Wistfulness was still his dominant mood when he tookhis seat in the railway carriage the next morning.Opposite him sat Stevenham, who had attained to arecognised brevet of importance through the fact of anuncle having dropped dead in the act of voting at aParliamentary election. That had happened three yearsago, but Stevenham was still deferred to on all questionsof home and foreign politics."Hullo, how's the giant mushroom, or whatever itwas?" was all the notice Blenkinthrope got from hisfellow travellers.Young Duckby, whom he mildly disliked, speedilymonopolised the general attention by an account of adomestic bereavement."Had four young pigeons carried off last night by awhacking big rat. Oh, a monster he must have been; youcould tell by the size of the hole he made breaking intothe loft."No moderate-sized rat ever seemed to carry out anypredatory operations in these regions; they were allenormous in their enormity."Pretty hard lines that," continued Duckby, seeingthat he had secured the attention and respect of thecompany; "four squeakers carried off at one swoop. You'dfind it rather hard to match that in the way of unlooked-for bad luck.""I had six pullets out of a pen of seven killed by asnake yesterday afternoon," said Blenkinthrope, in avoice which he hardly recognised as his own."By a snake?" came in excited chorus."It fascinated them with its deadly, glitteringeyes, one after the other, and struck them down whilethey stood helpless. A bedridden neighbour, who wasn'table to call for assistance, witnessed it all from herbedroom window.""Well, I never!" broke in the chorus, withvariations."The interesting part of it is about the seventhpullet, the one that didn't get killed," resumedBlenkinthrope, slowly lighting a cigarette. Hisdiffidence had left him, and he was beginning to realisehow safe and easy depravity can seem once one has thecourage to begin. "The six dead birds were Minorcas; theseventh was a Houdan with a mop of feathers all over itseyes. It could hardly see the snake at all, so of courseit wasn't mesmerised like the others. It just could seesomething wriggling on the ground, and went for it andpecked it to death.""Well, I'm blessed!" exclaimed the chorus.In the course of the next few days Blenkinthropediscovered how little the loss of one's self-respectaffects one when one has gained the esteem of the world.His story found its way into one of the poultry papers,and was copied thence into a daily news-sheet as a matterof general interest. A lady wrote from the North ofScotland recounting a similar episode which she hadwitnessed as occurring between a stoat and a blindgrouse. Somehow a lie seems so much less reprehensiblewhen one can call it a lee.For awhile the adapter of the Seventh Pullet storyenjoyed to the full his altered standing as a person ofconsequence, one who had had some share in the strangeevents of his times. Then he was thrust once again intothe cold grey background by the sudden blossoming intoimportance of Smith-Paddon, a daily fellow-traveller,whose little girl had been knocked down and nearly hurtby a car belonging to a musical-comedy actress. Theactress was not in the car at the time, but she was innumerous photographs which appeared in the illustratedpapers of Zoto Dobreen inquiring after the well-being ofMaisie, daughter of Edmund Smith-Paddon, Esq. With thisnew human interest to absorb them the travellingcompanions were almost rude when Blenkinthrope tried toexplain his contrivance for keeping vipers and peregrinefalcons out of his chicken-run.Gorworth, to whom he unburdened himself in private,gave him the same counsel as heretofore."Invent something.""Yes, but what?"The ready affirmative coupled with the questionbetrayed a significant shifting of the ethicalstandpoint.It was a few days later that Blenkinthrope revealeda chapter of family history to the customary gathering inthe railway carriage."Curious thing happened to my aunt, the one wholives in Paris," he began. He had several aunts, butthey were all geographically distributed over GreaterLondon."She was sitting on a seat in the Bois the otherafternoon, after lunching at the Roumanian Legation."Whatever the story gained in picturesqueness fromthe dragging-in of diplomatic "atmosphere," it ceasedfrom that moment to command any acceptance as a record ofcurrent events. Gorworth had warned his neophyte thatthis would be the case, but the traditional enthusiasm ofthe neophyte had triumphed over discretion."She was feeling rather drowsy, the effect probablyof the champagne, which she's not in the habit of takingin the middle of the day."A subdued murmur of admiration went round thecompany. Blenkinthrope's aunts were not used to takingchampagne in the middle of the year, regarding itexclusively as a Christmas and New Year accessory."Presently a rather portly gentleman passed by herseat and paused an instant to light a cigar. At thatmoment a youngish man came up behind him, drew the bladefrom a swordstick, and stabbed him half a dozen timesthrough and through. 'Scoundrel,' he cried to hisvictim, 'you do not know me. My name is Henri Leturc.'The elder man wiped away some of the blood that wasspattering his clothes, turned to his assailant, andsaid: `And since when has an attempted assassination beenconsidered an introduction?' Then he finished lightinghis cigar and walked away. My aunt had intendedscreaming for the police, but seeing the indifferencewith which the principal in the affair treated the mattershe felt that it would be an impertinence on her part tointerfere. Of course I need hardly say she put the wholething down to the effects of a warm, drowsy afternoon andthe Legation champagne. Now comes the astonishing partof my story. A fortnight later a bank manager wasstabbed to death with a swordstick in that very part ofthe Bois. His assassin was the son of a charwomanformerly working at the bank, who had been dismissed fromher job by the manager on account of chronicintemperance. His name was Henri Leturc."From that moment Blenkinthrope was tacitly acceptedas the Munchausen of the party. No effort was spared todraw him out from day to day in the exercise of testingtheir powers of credulity, and Blenkinthrope, in thefalse security of an assured and receptive audience,waxed industrious and ingenious in supplying the demandfor marvels. Duckby's satirical story of a tame otterthat had a tank in the garden to swim in, and whinedrestlessly whenever the water-rate was overdue, wasscarcely an unfair parody of some of Blenkinthrope'swilder efforts. And then one day came Nemesis.Returning to his villa one evening Blenkinthropefound his wife sitting in front of a pack of cards, whichshe was scrutinising with unusual concentration."The same old patience-game?" he asked carelessly."No, dear; this is the Death's Head patience, themost difficult of them all. I've never got it to workout, and somehow I should be rather frightened if I did.Mother only got it out once in her life; she was afraidof it, too. Her great-aunt had done it once and fallendead from excitement the next moment, and mother alwayshad a feeling that she would die if she ever got it out.She died the same night that she did it. She was in badhealth at the time, certainly, but it was a strangecoincidence.""Don't do it if it frightens you," wasBlenkinthrope's practical comment as he left the room. Afew minutes later his wife called to him."John, it gave me such a turn, I nearly got it out.Only the five of diamonds held me up at the end. Ireally thought I'd done it.""Why, you can do it," said Blenkinthrope, who hadcome back to the room; "if you shift the eight of clubson to that open nine the five can be moved on to thesix."His wife made the suggested move with hasty,trembling fingers, and piled the outstanding cards on totheir respective packs. Then she followed the example ofher mother and great-grand-aunt.Blenkinthrope had been genuinely fond of his wife,but in the midst of his bereavement one dominant thoughtobtruded itself. Something sensational and real had atlast come into his life; no longer was it a grey,colourless record. The headlines which mightappropriately describe his domestic tragedy kept shapingthemselves in his brain. "Inherited presentiment comestrue." "The Death's Head patience: Card-game thatjustified its sinister name in three generations." Hewrote out a full story of the fatal occurrence for theEssex Vedette, the editor of which was a friend of his,and to another friend he gave a condensed account, to betaken up to the office of one of the halfpenny dailies.But in both cases his reputation as a romancer stoodfatally in the way of the fulfilment of his ambitions."Not the right thing to be Munchausening in a time ofsorrow" agreed his friends among themselves, and a briefnote of regret at the "sudden death of the wife of ourrespected neighbour, Mr. John Blenkinthrope, from heartfailure," appearing in the news column of the local paperwas the forlorn outcome of his visions of widespreadpublicity.Blenkinthrope shrank from the society of hiserstwhile travelling companions and took to travellingtownwards by an earlier train. He sometimes tries toenlist the sympathy and attention of a chanceacquaintance in details of the whistling prowess of hisbest canary or the dimensions of his largest beetroot; hescarcely recognises himself as the man who was oncespoken about and pointed out as the owner of the SeventhPullet.
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